‘I can’t tell you everything. I’m sworn to secrecy—’
‘Fuck that!’ His voice rose angrily. ‘Something big’s happening, isn’t it? You’ve been using me and Nicholas to help with aspects of it. That stolen jewel of the Queen’s down at Baynard’s Castle, the murdered printer whose parents you’re supposed to be acting for, those men who attacked us in that tavern; that scared-looking young man you questioned in chambers. They’re all connected, aren’t they? You send me with a note to the palace and then a whole troop of men come and take the poor arsehole away. He was terrified. And that young lawyer who came with them, the one with the warty face, he works for the Queen, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could tell by the manner, the cut of his robe, that he was a palace lawyer – I worked round people like that long enough. And I’ve known you six years; I know how jumpy and tetchy you get when something dangerous is on!’ He stabbed a finger at me. ‘The Queen’s got you mixed up in something again, hasn’t she? Someone’s kidnapped Nick because of it, and you want me to help you get him back! Well, tell me everything first! Everything!’
I raised my hands. ‘Lower your voice, or the women will hear.’ I hesitated; if I told him all I would be breaking my oath and exposing him to dangerous secrets, but if I were to do anything for Nicholas I needed Barak’s assistance now. So I told him the whole story: my first summons to the Queen, the missing Lamentation, the two men who had died and the others who had vanished, Myldmore’s confession, Anne Askew’s writings. I spoke softly, Barak asking a couple of questions now and again in an equally quiet voice.
At the end of my story he sat thinking, stroking his beard, but still looking angry. ‘Can’t you get the Queen’s men to help you?’
‘The note says they have a spy in the palace.’
‘That could be bluff.’
‘I daren’t risk it.’
‘Can’t you get a personal note to the Queen herself – you who would do anything for her?’ There was impatience in his voice.
I shook my head. ‘There is no time. Nine tonight, remember. It’s well past seven now.’
‘If there is a spy at Whitehall Palace, they won’t let you out of this house of theirs alive to tell of it. Let alone release Nick.’
I spoke quietly, ‘I just want you to come to the house with me and hide nearby while I go in. You’re good at that.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Then, if I don’t come out in twenty minutes, try to get a message to the lawyer William Cecil. There is no danger to you in that.’
He shook his head, suddenly weary. ‘You’d die for the Queen, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I answered simply.
He paced the room, then said, ‘Shit. I’ll come. Though I think Tamasin’s already suspicious over my hand.’
‘Thank you, Jack.’ I spoke humbly. ‘Thank you. I am more grateful than I can say.’
‘So you fucking should be. Now wait here while I go and say goodbye to my wife, tell her some story about a witness that needs to be seen urgently. I don’t want her seeing that drawn face of yours again. I’ll call you down.’
‘We’ve an hour and a half,’ I said.
‘Enough, then, to find a tavern, and think and plan properly.’
WE WALKED INTO THE CITY, then down towards the river. Barak had donned an old leather jerkin over his shirt, and brought another for me, which I had placed over my doublet once we left the house. It would not be wise to stand out in the poorer areas for which we were headed. Greening’s killers had known that.
‘Have you any gold in your purse?’ he asked.
‘Yes. And some silver.’
‘Gold’s much better.’
We said little more as we walked along St Peter’s Street and into Thames Street. To the south I could see the cranes on the wharves and the river beyond, white with sails. Over to the west the sun was setting. Barak never broke his stride; he had spent all his life in the city and knew every street and alley. Eventually he stopped. A respectable-looking tavern stood where Thames Street intersected with a lane of narrow, tumbledown houses that led down to the river, some of the buildings slanting at odd angles as they had settled, over the decades, into the Thames clay. A little way down the lane I saw a sign marking another, shabbier-looking tavern, painted with the red-and-white cross of St George. It was the Sign of the Flag mentioned in the note.